Waterdhavian Blades
by The Signal
Summary: Four young adventurers brave the perils of Undermountain to recover an evil archmage's staff, but in the City of Splendors, does evil really matter?


Disclaimer: Dungeons & Dragons and the Forgotten Realms belong to Wizards of the Coast, a subsidiary of Hasbro Inc.

Author's note: This, sadly, is essentially a first draft. I wanted to do more with it before posting, but I can't think of anything else to add to this chapter and I'd like to tell this story eventually.

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The only light that slipped into the shadowy room came from the pillar of flame before the archmage's throne. Small sparks occasionally leapt out of the inferno to die upon the castle's black stone and an indiscernible form flailed helplessly at the core of the inferno, its screams of agony resounding throughout the grand hall. The man rested his cheek upon his right hand and let out a heavy sigh. The spell was getting tedious.

It was, however, necessary. The mage could tolerate thieves and he could understand spies. He had little care for his own safety or for the safety of his agents; he was not so unique as to be irreplaceable and he had seen too many minions fall during the last five years of his work to burden himself with their fate. He could not, however, tolerate threats to his goddess. She was, after all, the only thing that mattered, the only one who made this world worth living. She was the path to absolute power.

Those who tried to get in the way of that power, to take it from her and keep it as their own, had to be made into examples. He had to make it clear that any who dared to stand in her way would be crushed by the weight of his wrath. Yes, the spell was necessary, even if it was tedious. The mage took a small piece of charcoal with his left hand and ground it into dust, uttering a few simple words in an arcane tongue.

The flames burst into life, consuming the prisoner with a renewed fury. The screams, however, remained much the same, as did the flailing. The human body could only express so much pain before its ability to do so became limited and, in this case, irrelevant. The pain was felt. Nothing else mattered.

"I cannot blame you for stealing from me," the mage said. He knew his words were heard, though he was not entirely certain that they were understood. "It's not your fault you stole from me. You are just a sad little pawn who was tricked into meddling with a power that was far, far beyond his understanding and who will die knowing that his life was pointless. Your suffering will not convince you to answer my questions; you were ready to do so the moment you were caught. It does not even amuse me. No, your pain is just a lesson that you will never profit from and that other fools of your kind will simply ignore." The mage let out another sigh. "I suppose you could take some comfort in the knowledge that you are not the only pawn in this room."

He stood up slowly and walked towards his prisoner, his black cloak flowing loosely behind him. He descended the stairs leading to his throne and stood before the pyre, the heat of the flames blistering the skin of his face and the smell of charred flesh invading his nostrils.

"Your employer has committed the greatest act of blasphemy, and you were instrumental to his plans. All who hear of your fate must understand this, or else the blasphemy will never stop. Surely even one such as you can understand this?" The mage clapped his hands together once and the fire faded and a frail body crashed upon the floor.

There was little left of the man it had once been. The clothes had turned to ash and the flesh was almost all gone, though some pieces remained in some areas, mostly around the prisoner's face. The eyes were nothing more than hollow sockets, the hair had all burned away and the four remaining appendages were all useless stumps, many of the fingers and toes having fallen off several hours ago. And yet, the man was still alive, if one used the usual meaning of the word.

"I'm not angry, you know," the robe-clad man said as he circled around the broken body of his foe. "If I were angry, you wouldn't be dying right now, you'd still be screaming. I'm just irritated." He knelt down by his prey and looked into what little remained of his fire-scarred face. "My staff," he said softly, "where is it?"

A blackened head turned towards the mage, shedding strips of charred flesh that had remained stuck to the stone floor. "Undermountain," he said with great difficulty before falling upon the floor, a lifeless statue forever petrified by rigor mortis.

"Undermountain," the mage echoed. "That bastard hid it in Undermountain." The mage calmly went back upon his throne, ignoring the body on display in the middle of the hall. "He cannot hope to finish his work there, not with the creatures and adventurers who crowd the place and the staff is useless to him if he does not have it in his possession." He leaned back and pressed his palms together, clacking his tongue against his mouth. "He cannot use it, he cannot hide it, and he must know that I cannot spend time away from my work to fetch it, so it is not a trap. He wants me to send agents to get it for me."

A small figure crawled out of the shadows, and flew up to the archmage's throne. It was a small, wretched thing, covered with a leathery black hide. Its eyes were fixed upon the incinerated body and though its black tongue darted between its needle-like fangs and cracked lips, it did not dare move closer to the meal it desired. It perched itself upon the top of the throne, impatiently scratching the smooth marble with its claws.

"Talking to yourself again, Elian?" it asked. "You'll have to break that habit before someone overhears something important. The lich has a lot of ways of getting past your wards, as our deceased friend here has proven."

"Someone's always listening," Elian said.

"I hope by Baator that she has better things to do than to spend her days listening to your monologues." The imp flew down to the body and poked it a bit. "What do you want to do with him?"

Elian crossed his arms upon his lap and leaned forward, pondering his familiar's question. A silent corpse would be an intimidating warning, but a charred body that still held life would be far more shocking. He reached for one of the rods tied to his trousers and chuckled slightly.

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Jhenok Eltorchul sat stoically upon his chair, drinking the finest ale the Yawning Portal had to offer and watched his sister Vaelsa and her friend Harras Maerklos talk excitedly with what appeared to be a frail sorcerer who, judging by his dirty robes, hadn't seen any kind of inn in several months, at least. Jhenok, a proud paladin of Mystra, was quite fond of wizards and sorcerers. Indeed, it was widely believed that that he was born to distrust anyone who couldn't throw fireball and that the only reason why he tolerated Harras and his priestly inclinations was that they grew up together and had been instructed by the same priest. Still this was going to be his first real adventure, and he didn't want to die in Halaster's maze because of some wizard who couldn't tell the difference between his spells.

The rest of his party, however, seemed quite comfortable with him. Both Harras and his sister were smiling brightly, sharing stories with the stranger and drinking eagerly with him. A small army of goblins could have crawled into the tavern and neither one of them would have noticed. Of course, neither one of them was wearing a man's weight in steel. Heavy armour seemed to promote a certain level of self-preservation that robes simply couldn't match. It probably had something to do with the sweating.

Vaelsa gave both her companions a slight nod and walked back to her brother, a mug of ale in each hand. Giving one to him and placing the second one before her, she sat down and gave Jhenok a bright smile.

"We have a quest, Jhenok," she said happily, "and it's a real one, too. We met a sorcerer called Ralpa. He says that he knows a man in Luskan who was part of a party that travelled into Undermountain a while back. Their wizard got killed and they had to leave his staff there and now he wants it back. He says he can sell it for enough gold to buy half of Waterdeep. If we can get the staff to him, he'll split it with us equally."

Jhenok shrugged slightly. "What kind of staff is worth that much money?"

"It's probably an artifact, unless someone's willing to spend a lot of coin on sentimental value. Either way, it looks like a good offer to me," Vaelsa answered. She brushed a strand of dark hair away from her eyes and looked at Jhenok, waiting for his word.

"All right," Jhenok said. "Let's hear the details."

Vaelsa waved energetically to Harras and Ralpa and both men strode through the busy crowed, deftly avoiding drunken patrons who had lost their footing and somehow manage to avoid spilling their drinks. They placed their mugs before their chairs and sat down.

"So," Ralpa said, "you've heard my offer?" He was a small man dressed in Jhenok could only describe as grey rags. Countless pouches had been sewn into his robes and belts, and the Yawning Portal's fine food was no match for the odour of the ingredients these pouches contained.

"Aye," Jhenok answered. "I'm just waiting to know the catch."

"There's only one catch in Undermountain, Jhenok," Harras said. "We have to survive deadly traps, kill a small horde of monsters and defy certain death to get the loot."

"It shouldn't be anywhere near as dramatic as that," Ralpa said. "According to my contact in Luskan, the staff should be in a library on the first level. They didn't make it very far. I guess some of the monsters could have moved it, but it should still be pretty close. What do you think?"

Jhenok nodded slowly. "It sounds good to me. We weren't planning on going too far in the first place. When will you be ready to go?"

"In the morning," Ralpa said. "It's been a while since I had some rest." The sorcerer stood up and bowed to his new companions before fading into the crowd. The three would-be adventurers watched him go with mild interest.

"So," Jhenok said, "have either of you heard anything more about that corpse they found at the gates of Mystra's temple?"

Harras shook his head slowly. "Only thing I heard was that he's not a corpse. According to a runner I spoke with, he's still breathing, but he can't do anything else. The priests don't know who the man is and there's not enough of the left for most divinations. People say that it's a warning, but nobody knows who it's for or what it's about. I don't like it much, but I was told not to worry. We'll be told if we're needed, Jhenok. Until then, we've got Undermountain to keep us busy."

Jhenok finished his tankard as well as Ralpa's. Despite his long journey, the sorcerer hadn't taken any of his ale. The paladin stood and bowed to his companions before going into the crowd to find his own room. Vaelsa and Harras stayed at the table, quietly sipping their drinks and somehow managing to ignore the crowd around them.

"It feels like we didn't spend enough time planning this," Vaelsa said after a moment.

"It wouldn't be an adventure if we knew how it was going to turn out," Harras said. "This isn't going to be easy, but it should be some good fun."

"At least now I know what I need to do to catch your attention," Vaesla whispered softly.

Harras' face darkened. "Vaesla, this is serious business. We could all die tomorrow."

"It's only serious when you need an excuse, Harras." Vaesla set her mug aside and stood up. Harras gently put his hand over hers.

"I have a duty to Mystra, Vaesla. You know that." A long time ago, he would've said it with pain in his voice. Now, he was just condescending, as if he was speaking with a child who couldn't understand a simple lesson.

"I know what your duty is. Do you?" Vaesla pulled away from him and moved up to her own room, leaving Harras alone with the crowd.


End file.
